The Death of Joy
by Ramzes
Summary: We all know the Greek and Norse myths about good and evil gods. Do you care to meet the Slavic version of a dark goddess? If so, you might want to give this story - and Morena - a bit of your time.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I am not sure I should even include one, since I really don't know who holds the rights over these Slavic deities. Anyway, it certainly isn't me._

**Slavic myths are not well preserved, at least compared to the Greek and Norse ones. Anyway, those that survived are really fascinating. To me, at least. I hope you'll like my view on this one.**

The Death of Joy

It was the late autumn when word spread that Oda had returned. Heavily pregnant, she had wished to spend the last pre-winter weeks in her native village, with her mother and sisters caring for her. Her husband had agreed to bring her here before he left for his annual hunt.

The news spread in no time; soon, she was sitting with her friends on the shore of the nearest stream.

"So, what is it like?"

The young woman blushed crimson at her friends' eager questions. What could she tell them about how great it was to be married, to be a real wife? How could she describe to them how wonderful her new husband was? And could she really explain it to a crowd of maidens? They wouldn't understand.

"It is… different," she said, looking down at her sewing.

"How is it different?" Judith insisted.

Oda laughed despite herself and the others joined, throwing covert glances at the men who were hurrying around, busy with their work. "You will see," Oda responded with the air of mystery. "All of you. All I can tell you – " She paused. " – is that I hope you'll be as happy as I am. Riksa, you'll be the first one!"

The laughter suddenly died and Oda immediately realized that she had said something wrong.

"Hardly," Riksa said softly, her gaze glued to the distant figure on the nearest hill. Oda strained her eyes but all she could see was that the woman was dressed in white, her black hair whirling around her in the fierce wind.

* * *

"Look what I caught!" Mieszko cried as soon as he entered his home. His eyes immediately went to the woman sitting on the bear hide combing her long hair. She was staring at the stars, her face grieved, her thoughts far away. He was looking forward to seeing the satisfaction in her eyes and she didn't disappoint him: she gawked and cried, "Oh!" while he placed the game in front of her. It was his best hunting day in years, they would be provided for in weeks if they dried it properly.

"Now we can invite everyone to or wedding feast," he exclaimed and she nodded, smiling. He felt as if he could lose himself in that smile. He knew that he would never return to Riksa. He had never loved her for real, not the way he loved Mara. He would forever bless that day about half a month ago when he had first seen her. He had been hunting then, too, and she had appeared out of nowhere, a vision of loveliness in her simple white dress. He had fallen for her immediately, her hair and eyes and her pale face the most beautiful he had ever seen. He still couldn't believe his luck, that she returned his feelings. He could hardly wait to make her his wife, although there was some muttering among the villagers – they insisted that weddings should take place in the summer, not the winter. It did not bode good, old women said. He almost laughed at this. They were so old, they had really forgotten what it was to be young and helpless at what your heart demanded. There was no way that he'd wait for the summer to come, or even spring – he marry her as soon as possible. Until then, he'd leave her alone, although lodged in his home – another source of irritation for his fellow villagers who found it inappropriate for a man and a woman who were not related to share a home. Women were like cats, especially when one of them was prettier than the others. With time, they would accept Mara and her strange ways. Mieszko was ready to do everything to erase the grief from her eyes, to make her forget everything that ailed her heart.

* * *

He woke up suddenly, drenched in cold sweat. The fire was dying and the room was dimly lit by the last embers. There was something in there. Something terrible. Something that shouldn't be there. He instinctively looked at Mara's cot to make sure that she was all right, but it was empty. His betrothed stood in the middle of the room. Mieszko sighed, relieved. "Mara," he said, "for a moment I thought – "

The air in front of her curdled, and the room grew colder. The female figure rippled and faded, but Mieszko couldn't see her clearly. She was an old woman and she was a young girl. She was a proud queen and a desperate girl, wringing her hands. She was certain and she was confused. She was brave and she was cringing back, terrified.

"What – " the young man started, but suddenly he couldn't find his voice. His mouth had gone dry.

Suddenly, the flames flickered in the fireplace. In a minute, they were burning, high and fierce. Mieszko saw strange glowing shadows around the room – a horse, a ripe ear of wheat, a whole field of fruit, a clear running stream, a great celebration, a dark murder, a body being torn to build a house. In the middle of it all stood the ghost, little girl, young bride, old crone, beautiful, mad, regal, pathetic, cruel, grieved. A sudden flash took his eyes off her, to the shining scythe in front of him. In this moment, he realized that he had taken as his betrothed Death herself. He wanted to run away, but Mara aimed the scythe and spoke, "You pledged to be mine, that's why I will take you with me."

In this moment, Mieszko fell dead on the floor.

**A.N. Did you recognize the myth? I suppose you did. The motive, if not the names, at least. Is someone interested in a version of the same myth, but this time told by the dying-rebirthing god? Please, let me know.**


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: Not mine. I wish, though._

**Thank you, JJ Rust, for reading and reviewing this, although you were not acquainted with Slavic mythology.**

Chapter 2

The garden was silent with the coming night. The grass was low with footprints, but lush as usual. The birds were heavy with the birds that had migrated from across the sea, but they did not sing. No one liked the fall of the night, not even they.

The sheep started raising their heads from the grass that they were grazing and bleating in recognition as a young man came out of the wood, brushing his shoulders from the poplar down. He slowly went through the flock, patting a sheep here, stroking a lamb there and feeding it hey that he took out of his pockets. They were butting him with their heads, trying to nestle into him, and he laughed and surrendered. "You want to play, don't you?" he murmured. "Well, so do I."

After a while, he left the sheep and went to check on the cows and horses. Everywhere, he found a nice word, a gentle pat for everyone. He made sure that they had enough to eat and drink, although that was hardly necessary – here, in the world of Veles, the sky was always blue, the grass – lush and the spring – eternal. He only had to make sure that the cattle was near a water source, of which there were many – lakes and rivers, cool and quenching the thirst. They were not touched by the hotness of the summer that sometimes made water not so nice to drink. They were not covered with the ice cover that often chained the water in the world where the birds – and the young man – had come from. Here, everything was perfect.

He lit a fire to be able to see in the darkness, sat under a great green oak and started carving a piece of wood with his knife. He worked slowly, absent-mindedly, not really paying attention to the details, listening to the various sounds produced by Veles' cattle and the shushing of the spirits of deceased that guarded them. The firelight cast strange shadows over the trees and turned the apples, peas and peaches into some strange, unknown fruits… as fantastic as the creatures that kept sliding through the darkness, the same ones that caused panic and fright whenever they appeared into the world of living.

He almost missed the arrival of his foster father, but when he realized that Veles was standing in front of him, he immediately rose and bowed.

The god of the otherworld impatiently waved the bow off. They sat under the tree and were silent for a while. The older man took an apple out of his bag and offered it to the younger one who accepted.

"You do a great work with the cattle," Veles said approvingly.

"I have experience." His foster son did not smile, but his voice did not sound hostile.

Veles nodded. He had made a good choice by taking him and bringing him here. The boy behaved as if he had always lived in the otherworld… except for these times when he came back after having actually died. That blasted girl! Who would think that someone as beautiful and tender as her could be so cruel? Not that he minded her deed – he loved having his foster son back here, but tearing his corpse apart to build a _house_? That was too savage a deed even for Perun's daughter!

He looked aside, not wanting the boy to read his thoughts. And that was when he noticed the piece of carved wood. He took it and inspected it. Then, he shook his head.

"You're still thinking about her."

Jarilo blinked, sincerely confused. He looked at the piece of wood in Veles' hand and everything became clear.

He had carved a young girl's head. The head of the one who every single time had become his wife. The girl with black hair and pearl laughter, with dark eyes shining with joy. The one who killed him every year in her dark revenge.

"You still love her."

"No."

"Good. Because today, her latest victim arrived. A young man… but you know this."

Jarilo shrugged. He did not care. Maybe he would have if he had been in the other world, the world of living. But here, in this lovely garden of eternal spring and peace, it was impossible to feel such a thing as jealousy.

Veles watched him, as eager as a hawk. Maybe it _was_ possible for him to feel jealousy over Jarilo's life in the living world. It was in moments like that when the young man was reminded that yes, Veles was his foster father, but he was also his abductor, having snatched him from his cradle in the very night of his birth… their birth. Sometimes, Jarilo felt as if he could remember the beginning of it all: the great feast in the palace of the supreme god Perun on the top of the highest mountain. The gods were celebrating the birth of the twins, Jarilo and Morena, and the people were celebrating the new year – because it was Velja Noc, the Great Night, the last day of the old year. Jarilo could almost see his mother sleeping in her bed, still exhausted by her labour, and he, very small and alert, lying in the cradle next to equally small and alert Morena. He could swear he still felt the touch of the hand that suddenly appeared out of nowhere and seized him… an occurrence that happened every year and would go on as long as the world kept existing.

But these thoughts sparked no feelings in him. He could not hate Veles. Not really. No more than he could hate Morena who killed him myriad of times. He knew how she looked now – an ugly old witch – and he could feel neither triumph not regret. After all, she _had_ killed him, no matter how strongly provoked she might have been by his careless affairs with other women. And she never learned! Year after year, she still felt betrayed, not realizing that it was not in his nature to be faithful. He was connected to the Moon and it was not known for being constant. But Morena was tied to the Sun – she wanted to be the one for him. The only one. She really was, in a way. She was the first among all gods and goddesses who would notice his return to the living world. He would be taken by her beauty, her mettle and yes, her kindness. He would court her and marry her amidst the festival of the summer solstice, assuring abundance, fertility and blessing to the earth. A rich harvest. Then, his roving eye would bring him in trouble… a deadly trouble. Morena _was_ a jealous goddess. After his gruesome death, Jarilo would have to return to the world of dead. That was how it had always been. That was his destiny. And without him, Morena's broken heart would harden and she would turn into a frustrated old hag, a terrible and dangerous goddess of death, frost and upcoming winter, wreaking her vengeance upon the world. At this time of the year, she seduced young men and killed them – she did not care about anyone anymore. If they were lucky, she would not be seeking death but sincere love and attention. Anyway, she never got it. Jarilo was the only one for her. These luckier men she did not kill, she abandoned them, leaving in their hearts endless sorrow that was the mirror of her own. And at the end, she would die by the end of the year. At the beginning on the next year, both she and Jarilo would be born again and their cursed cycle would start again.

Veles stood up and went to the spring in the far end of the garden. He returned with a chalice of clear water and sat next to Jarilo. "Do you want to see her?" he asked slyly.

The young man shrugged. "Why not?"

Veles muttered some incantations over the water and there she was, flowing over the surface. Morena the old witch. The ugly wrinkled one, her remaining teeth bared in grotesque smile, her white hair flowing wildly, like a bunch of spears. Her whole bony frame shook with her horrible laughter.

"No regrets?" Veles asked.

Jarilo shook his head. "No regrets," he said. He knew that he was the one to blame, that he had taken away his twin sister's joy as he always did, and her grief and rage had finally reduced her to _this_ but she had _killed_ him! They were even.

And yet, when Veles stood up and left and Jarilo made himself comfortable under the oak and prepared for sleep, he looked at the carved piece of wood and whispered, "In the new year, my love." He stroked the wooden face. "We will be reunited in the new year."


End file.
